Funny... maybe it worked after all. Of course, since I am still unable to publish anything to sar5ah.blogspot.com, I can't implement the oh-so-simple method of communicating a URL change-- posting the updated address on the former site.
Life is hard.

Christmas has passed, was duly celebrated, all that. New Year's Eve looms in the near future. It looks like I'll end up being a hanger-on at a family party. Anything for pizza and board games. I hear that Dead Heretics will be attempting to watch the worst movie ever filmed. Now that sounds like a party.

Today marked the start of another week here-- what I had wrongly assumed would be my first "normal" week in my new city. But no. New's Year Even seems small in comparison to everything else-- I leave in the morning for my former city, to meet up with some people and then help a couple of friends move up here on Tuesday. Then beginning on Friday I have a four-day retreat. Complete with craft time. (I'm still hoping that was a bad joke.) So it looks like another week until my schedule opens up enough to start really settling in here. At the moment I'm still more than content to roam the city by myself, investigating neighborhoods and shops and streets. Without any internal need to start meeting new people just yet, I'll have to push myself to reach out. It can be done, I know. But it does take more than a little effort to overcome that first bit of static friction.

I find myself entering some sort of no-man's land between languages. I hadn't realised until my (former) flatmate's mother was staying with us exactly how much Arabic slips into my normal conversation. Commonly used words require no translation in my mind; they simply are. And all the foreigners I know here know at least as much Arabic as I do (most of them a great deal more), so until Brandi's mother started staring at me with an expression devoid of any comprehension, I had no idea that my speech was so laced with Arabic words and phrases. In one way I'm pleased that I'm employing what Arabic I know so easily and unconsciously, but it's also a tad disconcerting not to be immediately aware what language I'm speaking. I've always before picked up hints of this trouble during my travels, but this is an extreme I've never felt before.

I am unexpectedly swamped with exhaustion. Looks like it'll be an early night here.

Still trying to avoid finding a new site for blogging.... I thought I'd found a way. It seems not. But I am not defeated yet.

I've been trying to post the same thing since last Friday night, and I still can't get it out and actually on to my blog. Probably this won't go for a while either. But for when it does....

I successfully moved into my new apartment on Saturday night and since then have unpacked and arranged and fidgeted just about everything into place, I think. At least for the moment. Most of the knick-knacks which came with the apartment are now hiding in a dark corner inside the wardrobe in the back bedroom. And have subsequently been replaced with books. There is, after all, nothing else with which I would rather decorate.

My major mission for the day is baking two pies, one apple and one strawberry-- my contributions to the Christmas feast tomorrow. Tonight there's a multi-lingual midnight mass downtown, and some of us will go sing in Christmas day at that.

Locally Christmas happens on January 7, according to the Orthodox calendar. I'm curious to see what, if any, accompanying changes appear around here. Probably still no Santa Claus or canned Christmas lounge music. What an utter shame.

I awoke grudgingly this morning, and as I lay in bed trying to convince myself that yes, I should go to the service and yes, it was necessary to get up in order to do that, I heard the unbelievable sound of a car driving down a wet street. That pulled me out of bed quickly enough. I sprang to my window to see what was the matter. And lo! it had rained. Even more than the other day. This looked like the result of a fairly major shower.

The rain held off until the service was over, thankfully, since at this fellowship the services are held outside, and we were too late to get seats underneath the cover of the tent. (A mark of the winters around here: these services are held outside year round.) But afterward, as everyone milled around, mingling and chatting, the rain began again, and those who did not quickly scramble under the tent were, if not drenched, at least quickly and uncomfortably wet. As the rain continued, however, the tent proved no real sanctuary-- the saturated canvas began releasing such mammoth drips that it was actually more comfortable outside in what was by now only a faint drizzle. By the time I arrived home I was damp and chilled, but happy all the same. I thought it was glorious weather.

Tonight we had some friends (local, not American) over for a Christmas party. After preparing and eating a large meal (since food is the center of hospitality around here) we turned out all the lights and sat in the simple glow of candle light and listened to the Christmas story, told first in Arabic and then in English. More than listening to the words, I watched the others' faces as candle light and various expressions flicked over them. Some, like me, smiled at the familiarity of the oft heard and much loved story. Others looked unsure and then intrigued by turns. Technically a part of their religion, yes, but not so often read or talked about. Afterwards we explained the tradition of gift-giving and then had a time of wrapping-paper-shredding and oohing-and-aahing that rivaled any family Christmas in the States. As I glanced around the room at the happy faces, the scattered remnants of wrapping materials, and the "Christmas tree" (a large house plant draped with a strand of lights), I felt a deep sense of peace and contentment at being here. A night of shared traditions and discussions, yes, but also a holiday celebration with friends, with loved ones-- not so different after all.

I move tomorrow... technically today, I suppose, since it's after midnight. My last night here-- am I sad? Some. There are friends I will miss, and though I will see them again, it won't be as often or the same as it has been. But mostly I'm too excited and hopeful about this change to feel much regret. Perhaps the sentimentality will hit on the train tomorrow.

Did I mention that I will be living by myself in my new apartment? A blessing I never even dared hope to realise here. Only a few more days....

Last night was my great sally into the chaos of packing, and astoundingly enough (for me, at least) by midnight I had completed my task, with the exception of the few things I was keeping with me for the rest of the week and my flannel sheets that I wanted to sleep in between for one last night. I'll probably be slightly chilly tonight-- yes, I know it's not truly cold here, but neither do we have any heat-- and I have only an afghan, no real blanket.

So my room is stripped bare again, emptied of personality and comforts. A small cross to bear considering how little I myself will have to move on Saturday. A backpack only-- the rest of my things will be waiting for me in my flat. Despite the addition of things I've managed to collect since arriving here, I packed it all into my original containers, though I have to admit they would have been overweight by airline standards. As usual, I packed for efficiency of space only, without considering the amount of energy required to move such weight. My taxi driver was kind, though, and without complaint he hoisted two lockers up into the luggage rack on top of the car. I'm sure his back is feeling it now. I paid him well for his sacrifice.

Friday night I got a call about a possible apartment, so Saturday morning I caught the 8:00 train--- this time I was asleep almost before the train pulled out of the station. That particular apartment was a no-go, but we ended up seeing a couple others later on in the afternoon, and ham-del-allah one of them was satisfactory all around. So I stayed the night and signed a lease yesterday-- and this coming Saturday I move. Before Christmas, just as I had been hoping. el-ham-del-allah indeed.

My taxi driver Saturday morning coming from the train station was obviously a very religious man... white gallibeyah, traditional prayer cap, even a big bushy beard. I wasn't sure if he was going to talk to me beyond what was necessary, since I am equally obviously a Western female, which equals infidel in the worst way. But a few minutes after I got in he veered off onto a side street and stopped in front of a small store. Apologizing for the delay, he asked if I wanted anything and I of course replied that it was no problem and I was fine. But he came back a moment later bearing two bags of food and handed one to me as he started the car again. Inside were two sandwiches, fuul (spiced beans) and falafel. The fuul was probably the best I've had since I came here. I was reminded again how important hospitality, even to strangers, is in this culture, in his religion... and how often the lack of such hospitality is apparent in my own.

Winter must have actually arrived here, because today it rained. Enough to wet the streets, enough turn the ubiquitous dust into damp sticky mud, almost enough to make puddles in the potholes outside my apartment building. A rare, rare happening in this city, but in my new one, where the storms roll in off the sea, winters are usually rainy, even occasionally stormy. But it's nice that I was here long enough to see rain.

I move on Saturday! Really, I should be packing right now. Or at least sorting through some things. Almost everything will have to be packed by Wednesday so that it can be transported up in someone's car-- unless I want to struggle with all of it on the train on Saturday afternoon. But procrastination is an art form, and in my case a finely honed skill. There's little need to begin now.

I went to another wedding tonight. This one was in someone's flat, and while the living room was admittedly very large (more than half the size of my apartment last year) it was still crowded with guests. A space near the door had been left clear for dancing, but we arrived during a lull in the music, so there was the obligatory drop in volume as everyone turned to stare at the white people. Our friends (who are definitely not white) quickly began introducing us and finding us seats, however, and the mild roar of the guests' chatter resumed. The music started again a few minutes later-- mostly recordings of various local songs, plus a pseudo-techno/rasta version of "Tequila" in Arabic (if you can imagine) that I hope never to hear again.

About an hour after we arrived the live music began. The inevitable drums appeared, and someone else wheeled out a small keyboard. The singer began warming up with a series of peculiar ululations. Another man, wearing a tweed sports jacket and furry leopard print slippers, conjured up an accordion from some back room. I hadn't seen an accordion since I said goodbye to my dear Forrest back at the end of June, so I watched him eagerly as he wheezed through a few tentative notes. Gradually he picked up the volume and the tempo, and the other musicians followed. This was music worth dancing to. The guests responded appropriately, embellishing the music with clapping, shouts, and those strange jackal cries. To be fair to those who have in the past made so many derogatory remarks about the sound of an accordion (and you know who you are), as the music picked up it was occasionally difficult to tell what was accordion and what was feedback from the questionably rigged sound system. But we danced on anyhow.

In unrelated news, I found out yesterday that my friend Steve got into dental school. Quite an exciting thing-- as we say here, "a thousand blessings".

A cold front came through last night. Around here that means that today's high was only 68 degrees Fahrenheit. Only. Is it really almost mid-December? According to my language helper it's getting very cold. This doesn't bode well for my hopes of a noticeable winter. When I told her what the temperatures are back in Oklahoma and in some other parts of the States, her eyes opened to twice their normal size. Clearly she questioned the plausibility of anyone being able to exist in such desolate conditions.

To accompany the change in the weather, a cold front of a different kind swept through my head and throat last night, and it appears that I'm sick again, seemingly with the same thing as last time. I hope this isn't becoming a pattern-- one week sick, one week well, one week sick, one week well....

Ah, well. By grace I came here and by grace I'll stay. Something else to keep me humble.

Last Thursday I made my escape and fled north to visit my new city for the first time. I boarded the train with a quivering sensation of anticipation and, after being misdirected several times, found my seat and perched impatiently in it, tired but unable to sleep. It had occurred to me in the wee hours of that morning, as I desperately tried to still my circling thoughts, that I had not been outside of the city for two months. Eagerly I awaited my first sight of a horizon not defined by the roofs of the buildings across the street. I spoke briefly to the boy next to me, but my mind was too distracted by the excitement of my trip to be able to make much conversation. The train eased by the dingy buildings and crowded streets and at last began to pick up speed as the concrete walls fell away and the sky faded from smoky brown into clear blue. I wasn't able to fall asleep for almost another hour, so entranced was I by the groves of orange trees, punctuated by tall palms, and the colorfully dressed peasants on their jogging donkeys. And always the sky.

That afternoon, after my arrival and some lunch, my friends took me to the palace gardens, where we strolled around the grounds enjoying the cool green-ness and then wandered on out to the shore, where we sat on a wall above the sea and watched the water. Definitely not a lake in Oklahoma-- this water shifted through every imaginable shade of green and blue, and below me I could see down to the rocks on the bottom, through water clear enough that I could not tell how deep it was. For a long time I stared out over the sea, stretching my eyes to where the water blurred into sky, wondering at the expanse spread out in front of me.

My days there passed quickly, and all too soon it was Saturday evening and I was boarding another train. I said my goodbyes and turned my face back towards the snarl of concrete and humanity whence I had come, all the while comforted by the thought that this now was temporary.

Another late night, but this time it's pressed by the knowledge that I must wake up and then immediately get up when my alarm goes off in the morning. I bought my ticket this morning and tomorrow (insha-allah, of course) I catch a train to travel to my new city. Just for a visit, this time, but I hope to make some progress towards plans for moving while I'm there. I hear there are some spare rooms floating around up there-- I'm very much okay with temporarily crashing someone else's apartment. I don't even require a bed.

Tonight is the Night of Power, an important night of prayer during Ramadan. Supposedly the prayers should last all through the night, beginning at about seven o'clock in the evening, but given the crush in the streets right now I'm not sure who could actually be praying. The entire city seems to be out and about, maybe trying to get to family's houses or mosques, I don't know. Traffic is at a stand-still most places.

As I came out of the Metro station tonight I caught the delicious scent of freshly popped corn wafting through the air, overpowering the usual smells of car exhaust, garbage, and heaven only knows what else. The smell was particularly enticing since (due to some wonderful drugs) I have in these past few days been able to smell for the first time in weeks. Irresistably drawn by the aroma, I wandered over to the small cart in which a man was skillet-popping corn over a gas flame. Catching the eye of a woman waiting there, I tried to strike up a conversation with her-- apparently she did understand my Arabic, but even so I could get no farther than learning the Arabic word for popcorn. (Maybe my height is intimidating.) When the pan of corn had finished popping, she and her companion accepted their bags of popcorn and quickly departed, leaving me standing there surrounded by young men... and no more popped corn. Having already paid, I was under some obligation to wait for the next pan (added to which, by this point I really, really wanted some popcorn), and so I did, this time supplied with all the conversation a girl could wish for. Too many minutes later, after several compliments and only two proposals (I must be losing my touch) and after some inane political commentary on Bush and a few even worse jokes about Osama bin Laden, I escaped with my hard-won bag of popcorn... compliments of the house, of course.

Someone just buzzed our flat-- the building door is locked, and unfortunately my key doesn't open it. So I'm locked in for the evening, and everyone else is locked out. A fire hazard, you say? mafeesh mushkella-- We live on the first floor and every room has a balcony. Really, it's a blessing. I won't be bothered by the doorbell for the rest of the night.

I caved yesterday and went to the doctor. Bacterial laryngitis. Probably it set it in as a result of my bout with the flu last weekend. Two days bed rest, no talking, swallow these pills and call me on Wednesday.

When I am sick, even (or perhaps especially) when I have passed into the forced-convalescence stage, I do not want people. I do not want their sympathetic words or their proffered help-- I merely want to be left alone. And just now, when I am denied even speech, even the ability to assert my desires and rights, I want that all the more. So this time it has all been especially difficult-- house guests through last night, and then the girls coming to do laundry here today.

I have such hopes for moving. Such high hopes for relocating. Maybe I haven't done things right here-- I'm not sure. I don't think that's the case, but I have no perspective yet. More likely, though, I've done things here exactly as planned, because it was ordained all along that I would make this move at this time. Ah, there's the Calvinist in me resurfacing. Things begin to realign.

It is December. Who would believe it? Time is a wisp of smoke, a puff of spore blown out on the wind. There no catching it, keeping it, holding it back. Willy-nilly, it slips ever onward, ever away.